Long before the pandemic, Stephen and I were inspired by the idea of creating an illusion of being somewhere else without the expense or hassle of having to get there. It was the reason why, almost twenty years ago, we planted two very large trees trees in a very small garden, which for the much of the year -- when we are craving more light at ground level -- seems like a head-scratching decision, but for a few weeks in November, when the leaves turn gold and yellow, seems like the smartest thing we've ever done.
I like to think the neighbors also appreciate the trees, but I've never spoken to anyone about it. (Nobody has ever complained, though, which I take as a good sign.)
The rest of the neighborhood was poisonously warm and eerily beautiful.
This is Riverside Drive looking south near 152nd Street. (Harlem.)
And here's the path next to the Hudson River, just south of the George Washington Bridge.
The city felt far away, but it was nice to have a view of the skyline, a reminder of where I could be but wasn't.
This circle, shaded by oaks, is my favorite spot along the Hudson.
So much of Manhattan is a tedious, oppressive grid, a symbol of our slavish devotion to the market; here, the curves of the path offer a sense of mystery and possibility. Money and efficiency seem pointless when you contemplate the leaves and the water.
Here's an old staircase that leads across the train tracks, through the snake of highways, and, eventually, back to the grid.
In the November light, the forest seems to come alive, the trees straining to break through the cages in which they've been kept.
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